


Arcade Fire

by GingerGinny



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AmeCan, Caname - Freeform, FrUK, I'm not sure if I should make this a one shot or add more tags, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Relationship(s), breaking up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5701843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerGinny/pseuds/GingerGinny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of his messy breakup with England, America ends up in Paris with something completely unexpected but not entirely unwanted. England tries to drown his sorrows in as much liquor as he can get his hands on, Canada sees a horrible opportunity for something he missed years ago with Alfred, and France is stuck with a mop while the four awkwardly stumble around looking for their footing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

England threw back another whiskey, trying to drown the voices reverberating in his skull. Words that still echoed in his hollowed head hours after America had said them and stormed out of England's apartment. Words that he saw floating in the remains of his drink before he tried to stifle them in more liquor.

_"We're done, Arthur. It's over."_ America had said, his voice scratchy from hours of verbal tug-o-war with England. _"Let me go, Arthur, please."_

America had sat hunched in England's kitchen, one elbow on the table as he leaned his head against his fist. England had been to anxious to sit and instead chose to pace from one counter to the other, and avoided America's eyes.

_"Alfred, this is ridiculous. You're acting like a bloody child. We can fix this if we just-"_

_"Fix this? Fix this?!"_ America had yelled, gesturing wildly between himself and England. _"The same way we've always 'fixed' it?! By screaming at each other until our voices are gone?"_

_"What the hell does that mean?"_ England had fired back.

_"It took me well over a century not to hate you after the Revolution. It took you even longer to look at me and not feel pain."_

America had grabbed his jacket off the kitchen chair then, and looked up at England pathetically. _"And these last few weeks feels like those times. I can't go back to hating you, Arthur. But I will, if we keep doing this."_

More whiskey found itself in England's glass, and England grimaced as he remembered what he'd done next.

He'd rushed forward, grabbed America's face and smashed their lips together in a painful combo of teeth and unwilling lips. England tried to kiss America like that would fix it, because somewhere in his head a voice concluded that the fight would end if he could just get America to stop talking. America had stood shock-still as England pressed into him. The Brit didn't back away until America moved his lips as well, his teeth clenched as he gave England just enough leeway that he'd pull back.

England could get a warmer kiss right now from the ice cube in his glass.

America had pushed him away softly and looked into his eyes, a look that was still engraved on the inside of England's eyelids. Those damn blue eyes with the same color and with the same amount of love as a glacier.

_"I don't love you, Arthur. Not the way you want me to."_ A pause as England felt America's hands fall away. _"Goodbye, England. I'm sorry."_

England felt the weathered bar top under his fingers, unflattering light cast on them from the florescent bulbs above. At some point after America left and he'd consumed all the liquor in his flat, England stumbled his way into a pub. He was content with the idea of filling his stomach with whiskey, trying to shove his pain down past the black pit in his stomach.

"'I'm sorry'," He mocked with his voice pitched and slurred, "Why not just set my flat on fire while you're at it. Another, please."

The bartender looked at England before reaching over and taking the glass away. "Nah, I'm cuttin' you off."

"What? Bloody excuse me, who do you think you are?" England stammered, reaching for the glass.

"The bloke telling you that you're cut off." He replied. "Go on, get outta here."

"Pissy- you can't- I'm leaving you wanker!" England cried. He threw himself dramatically off the stool, taking a bowl of bar nuts with him. "Kick me out of a- I'M LEAVING THIS ESTABLISHMENT!"

Aside from England himself, the only other people were the bartender and a man shoving fish and chips into his mouth. Only they were witness to England climbing over a table and fighting his way to the bar's dartboard.

"Oh, lord." The bartender sighed as England wrestled with the board, throwing darts out of his way as he pried it away from the wall.

"AND I'M TAKING THIS WITH ME" England paused as he tried to finish his though coherently, "SUCK MY ARSE YOU- YOU ARSE-SUCKER!"

Trophy in hand, England stumbled out into the late night London air.

* * *

 

America's skin beamed bright red as he scrubbed, fingernails pressed through the thin washcloth. He felt dirty, even in the pale-colored french hotel bathroom, his own words lingering on his skin.

In his head they hadn't been so bad. They were true after all, whatever romantic love he'd had for England faded quickly after their first fight and every memory of war between them surfaced in America's mind. Every memory of all the years they hated each other bubbled up. England in that certain shade of red, waving a gun around.

But in his head America didn't see England's eyes, didn't have feel the last hopeless kiss England had tried to give him. He was going to run out of soap and layers of skin before he could get rid of the awful feeling of England's slobbery lips against his. America turned so the freezing cold water bounced off his neck and ran down his back instead, goosebumps creeping up his arms.

Seeing Canada had made it worse. He'd barely stepped over the French border when he saw Canada waiting for him, sympathetic smile on his face. America had texted him an hour before he'd broken-up with England, and Canada promised he'd wait for him at the train station.

"Hey, Mattie." America said when he got close enough to Canada. He didn't smile, just nodded.

"Bonjour, Al." Canada had replied.

Canada, wonderful Canada who hadn't pried him for info the second they were in speaking range. Who didn't initiate a hug the second they saw each other, unlike most of the other people getting off the train.

They had walked in quiet unison through the station, America letting Canada guide him. America kept his hands stuffed into his pockets and his eyes trained on the ground as he moved silently behind the Canadian, shoving past french and English people alike.

"Are you hungry?" Canada had asked him. In that moment America felt nothing but nausea, the same feeling returning in the shower.

America clasped a hand over his mouth, dropping the washcloth as he gagged. God, he felt gross. He slammed the water off and stepped out of the shower, pulling a towel towards him.

"No, I just want a shower." America had replied, what seemed like hours ago. So many hours ago that the water had gone from burning to freezing, and he'd cried sometime around when the water was lukewarm before trying to rub his skin off.

His reflection looked ridiculous. Sopping wet hair and bright red skin, with matching eyes red from soap. Parts of his skin still stung even out of the shower, his left arm bleeding in long strips where he'd used his nails instead of the washcloth. A little too much flab around his stomach, but that was an issue for a later time. He tied the towel around his waist and stepped out onto the plush carpet of the hotel room.

America turned to look over at Canada, who was pulling clothes out of his suitcase and refolding them. America made a note for later to steal some clothes from him; He'd left his clothing behind.

France sat in the armchair behind him, lost in thought as he gazed out the window towards the Paris skyline. His head was balanced on his fist and he only turned to look when Canada cried out at America's bloody arm.

"Alfred, oh my god!"

America let himself be pulled over to one of the beds, towel barely hanging on as he was plopped on an overly decorated bedspread. He dampened the white flower pattern and it's matching gold thread as he fiddled with a loose strand.

"Hang on, I'll grab some more towels." Canada said, rushing off into the bathroom and dropping a sweatshirt back into his suitcase.

France stood up and sat down next to America on the bed. Concern wavered in his words as he hesitated to touch America's skin, voice lowered so only America could hear him. "Was this...?"

"Me." America answered. "It was me. I did it to myself."

France pushed a strand of America's hair back as Canada dropped a load of towels down on the bedspread, a bottle of hotel lotion bouncing down next to them. It seemed that he'd grabbed every last one from the bathroom, along with a wet washcloth that he hovered over America's cuts.

"How did it go, cher?" France asked, his voice soft and lovely.

America winced slightly as a plop of lotion landed on his back.

"I broke up with him."

Canada's hand pressed lightly against him, spreading the lotion along America's shoulder blades.

"England's a big boy, he can handle it." France said. A question lurked on the air around them, a game of chicken between Canada and France as they waited for the other to ask. Did he handle it well?

"He was in denial." America said, answering the unasked question. "He tried to kiss me."

Canada's hand stopped mid-circle.

Another question went verbally unasked that America answered. "I didn't kiss him back, just enough to push him off and I told him goodbye. Then I left."

Outside, far below the hotel room window, a woman's laugh could be heard as a motorcycle sped by. Music played faintly in the distance, a fast beat drowned through layers of walls. Any other day and America would be out there too, letting his head get fuzzy on expensive drinks instead of staring down at the carpet.

"All we ever did anymore was fight." America started as Canada swiped gently at the blood on America's arm. "Or sit in utter silence and act like everything was okay. He'd sit there and drink his tea, do his paperwork, then go to sleep. It was just like I was a kid again. And if we kept trying, it would end just the same way that did."

America finished with a quiet: "I don't really want to talk about it right now."

"Ah." France said. Canada caught his eye over America's shoulder, nodding down at America's raw arm.  
  
"Let me go grab some bandages from the front desk, then perhaps we could discuss dinner?" France asked America, patting the American's knee. "Maybe I'll just leave that to Mathieu."

"Huh?" America said, drifting off into space. "Oh, right right. Sure. Food."  
  
When he reached the door, France paused, looking back at Canada and America. His wayward son brushed gently at tender skin before glancing back at France and smiling softly. The same worried smile France had seen him give America when he'd found out that America and England had started dating.

The same smile Canada had given France when he had reassured him that he most certainly did not like America all that time ago. The smile that cracked moments later and left Canada crying in France's shoulder.

France shut the door softly behind him and, leaving America alone with Canada.

"You don't have to do that, ya'know." America said sheepishly, twisting to look at Canada. "They'll heal quickly enough."

"I'm aware." Canada whispered.

A beat of silence.

"But will you?"

America pulled away from Canada, turning his scratches away from the washcloth. "What?"

The washcloth quivered in Canada's hand. Shit. "I was wondering if you were okay. Emotionally and all, eh?"

America's eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you just don't seem all that... sad?" Canada said, biting his tongue seconds after asking. "No, that's not what I mean, I meant-"

"No, you're right." America replied, shifting so his back was towards Canada again. "I'm not exactly what you'd call heartbroken. More, melancholy I guess."

Canada folded his hands into his lap as America readjusted his towel to cover better.

"I kinda exited the relationship a long time ago, you know?" He said. "There's sadness that it didn't work out but everything else is just like, already gone and dealt with. I lived with the denial, the bargaining, and guilt by now. Cutting things off formally was just me finally accepting it."

"Accepting it?" Canada asked, kneading a knot in America's back.

"Yeah. Like the seven stages of grief and crap." There was the American slang Canada knew so well. "Acceptance is the last stage, then-"

"Hope." Canada finished for him, quiet but a little too eagerly. He felt horribly giddy, guilt mixing with dim hope in his stomach.

Canada's hands were slower now, pushing his thumbs against America's skin carefully. He was worried America could feel his nervousness and shaking hands. "Does this hurt?"

America arched his back before responding. "...No."

"Are you sure?" Canada whispered, scooting closer to America as his hands found their way onto the sides of America's ribcage.

"Yeah." America said, tilting his head toward's the sound of Canada's voice. "I'm sure."

Looping his arms around America's torso, Canada rested his forehead against America's neck. He pulled the American in close and felt America's fingers entwine in his hair. America was pleasantly warm, the smell of fresh soap still wafting off his skin.

Canada felt America turn under his fingertips, twisting again to face Canada as hands found their way to the back of Canada's neck and against America's chest. Neither moved, heat passing from one to the other as they looked from each other's eyes to their lips.

Canada was frozen in his spot, not daring to make the first move. Heat ran through his veins as forced himself to let that inch of space between them remain there; America looking tantalizingly slow from Canada's eyes to Canada's lips before gently pulling Canada against him.

America wasn't wearing chapstick; Canada was. Canada was wearing his glasses; America wasn't. One of them tasted like a hint of cheap train station candy while the other was mint fresh. Canada could feel his heart in his throat, a melting heat somewhere around his naval- America could feel his towel slip off. He didn't want to stop, for his heart was beating faster than it had in months and Canada's hands were softer than silk. They were also sinking a little too low for America's comfort level.

"Canada-" America tried, cut off by beautiful Canadian lips before he could say anything.

He opted instead with a light push, simply moving Canada off his lips before his towel completely exposed him.

"I'm sorry-" Canada started almost immediately. Words tumbled out off his mouth faster than America could keep up. "I don't know what I was thinking, you literally only broke up a few hours ago-"

America grabbed his chin. Gently, of course, just enough to insure that Canada didn't look down when America said: "My towel. I'm having a wardrobe malfunction."

"Eh?" A puzzled look, then wide eyes. "Oh! Oh, I'm sorry!"

America laughed, then grabbed another towel from the stack Canada brought in earlier. "So, uh, dinner maybe?"

"Clothes first." Canada said, eyes drifting down only followed by an ever so slight pang of disappointment. America had covered up a bit too quickly.

As America pulled on jeans, Canada made a dull note in the back of his mind that France never came back from the front desk, and had left his room card on the bedside table with a short scribble.

_'Mathieu- Be back soon, reservations for you and Alfred at Le Grand Vefour for 9. There is a basket of bandages outside the door. - big Brother France'_

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like the way the ending segment of this chapter came out, but it's as good as it's gonna get. Plus I need to get this idea out of my head so I can get back to my other fics, eh?
> 
> ALSO, does anyone know how to fix the line spacing? Please tell me if you do, I don't know how to fix it without going in and changing each line individually.

This was hell. Canada was trapped in his personal hell, pushing his pearled sea scallops around with his fork. 

 

There was dead silence between him and America now. Earlier during their cab ride to the restaurant, they’d had a nice conversation going after Canada mentioned the beauty of Paris. That conversation flowed from the cab, to waiting in line to be seated, and was still going strong by the time their appetizers had showed up. America had even made Canada order for him (even though they both knew he spoke perfect French) just so he could sit there with a shit-eating grin while Canada pretended it wasn’t funny. 

 

Canada wouldn’t have changed anything about the evening, until their entrees showed up.

 

America had gone mute when the man at the table across from them had pretended to drop his fork and gotten down on one knee. Not a word when the man had pulled out a ring and proposed to the shocked girl, or when everybody in the restaurant started clapping to honor the romantic gesture. He’d even sunk down in his seat when the girl said ‘Yes!’ and gleefully jumped into the man’s arms.

 

Now focusing on his filet of Lamb like it held the answers, America mirrored Canada’s fork pushing. He wished his knife was sharper, maybe he could stab himself with it.

 

So they were in hell together, Canada mused. This was his personal punishment for moving in on America so soon, making America feel overwhelming guilt. Canada sitting in a fancy restaurant that was originally meant for three until France bailed, now having to watch his love sulk in a romantic setting. 

 

Canada was gonna slap France the next time he saw him. 

 

America couldn’t get it out of his head that this was his payment for drawing out a dead relationship, having to see someone else’s prosper. The back corner of his mind told him that this was cheating, that it wasn’t even 24 hours after the break-up and he’d already made out with Canada. Was that fair; to England or to himself?

 

Looking over to the now kissing couple, America watched them feed bites of each other’s meal, giggling behind napkins when they missed. He’d tried to do that once with England, only to get his fork knocked down to the table and a head shake. Had that been the start of it, America wondered, when that love started to sour?

 

“That’s cute.” Canada mumbled, only half hoping America would hear.

 

America snapped his attention back to Canada. “What’s cute?”

 

“Them. You know, with the food sharing and all.” Canada said, avoiding America’s eyes. “I’m really sorry, we shouldn’t have come here.”

 

“No, no, it’s okay.” America replied. “It’s...fair. Fine, I mean. Actually, hey, Matthew?”

 

“Yes?” 

 

He wanted to kiss Canada like that couple, but guilt and anxiety simmered in his stomach. America could do this, as long as he reminded himself that it was Canada across from him, not England. This didn’t have to be just the bittersweet end of his relationship with England; it could be the beginning of a- whatever it was he and Canada were doing. And America was all about new beginnings.

 

He glanced back over at the couple. “Try this lamb, tell me if it tastes weird.” 

 

“Eh? Ok, sure.” Canada said, smiling nervously. He leaned forward and ate the bit of lamb on the end of America’s fork, catching America’s smile. 

 

His voice was muffled through food and the hand he had covering his mouth, but Canada shook his head. “No, it tastes good! Want one of my scallops? 

 

“Hell yeah!” America said as Canada speared one on his fork. 

 

He ate it the scallop and nearly took Canada’s fork with him, getting a laugh out of the Canadian. Midway through that laugh America realized that this whole thing wasn’t entirely fair to Canada either, and he couldn’t just sit here and act like that didn’t matter, like Canada wasn't a factor. Not like he normally did.

 

Because if he wanted this to go any farther, he needed to be open with Canada. 

 

Not to mention this scallop was a little chewy.

 

“Matthew, I need to tell you something.” America said, voice small as Canada’s smile wavered. 

 

They looked at each other, and America tried to smile reassuringly. “I know, have known for a while, that you like me. Really like me, and I’m sorry.”

 

Canada felt nauseous, worried that this was the time when America would say he ‘just isn’t ready for a relationship again’ or ‘I don’t feel the same about you’. Because that’s what it would be, wouldn’t it? He’d just be one of America’s rebounds, a bounceback board before America would throw himself into another relationship and Canada would have to sit there all over again, acting like it was okay. 

  
  


“Sorry for what?” 

 

“For kissing you, because I really liked it and I want to do it again.”

 

Canada nearly dropped his fork and America went back to staring down at his plate. 

 

“I’m sorry that I took advantage of how much you liked me. It was nice having someone to turn to after a fight or when things got emotional, or if I just needed a break from Eng-” America said, tripping over England’s name. “From Arthur. And it wasn’t fair of me to be fully aware of your feelings and to treat you like that, to show up at your house at anytime or call you to vent or any shit like that and still convince myself that I was committed to Arthur. And then kiss you in a hotel room and act like that didn’t affect me at all because it did.”

 

America could feel Canada’s attentive staring, and instead focused on how his lamb looked vaguely Australia-shaped. 

 

“I would dance around your feelings and act like I didn’t see them, but still selfishly reap the benefits. Because it was nice, wonderful actually, to have someone who’d just _listen_ to me and not treat me like a toddler. To have someone not ignore my flaws and someone who’d keep me grounded and just…just...”

 

He trailed off and left the sentence hanging, because realization didn’t dawn on America, it hit him like a brick. His lost his breath and felt his limbs go numb, his heart in his throat when he suddenly realised why Canada was the first person he’d ran to earlier that afternoon.

 

Earlier it had been his reasoning to go to France simply because it was physically the closest country to him besides England, and Canada happening to be there was just a happy byproduct. A nice addition. But now-

 

“Alfred?” Canada asked, his heart somewhere between sinking and soaring. 

 

“It was you.” Alfred whispered, his words coming out slow as he met Canada’s eyes. “You’re the reason I fell out of love with Arthur.”

 

“...What?” 

 

It was quiet between them as Canada tried to register those words, and he could practically hear the gears turning in America’s head.

 

“You listened to me and didn’t ignore parts of who I am. You liked me for _me_ , and I wanted that.” America’s eyebrows knitted together as he tried to get the right words out. “Arthur would push parts of me away or tell me that I was just acting like a child and every time I pushed away from that it lead to you. I ruined my own relationship because I kept trying to project your personality onto Arthur’s and getting the wrong results.” 

 

“I-I don’t understand, Al. What are you saying?” Canada asked, his voice low. 

  
“I let myself be buried in so many layers of denial that I hurt myself, Arthur, and you.” America said. He and Canada were leveling with each other, and the rest of the restaurant ceased to exist around them. “Because I somehow missed that fact that I  _like_ you, Matthew. I like you alot, and my relationship ended because I started falling for you.”

 

America wanted to vomit right here all over the table because _shit_ that really wasn’t fair. This whole conversation wasn’t fair. 

 

“You… like me?” Canada whispered. His arms felt weak, and somewhere along the way he’d lost feeling in his legs, but none of that mattered. That didn’t matter because right in front of him America’s eyes were watering, and were brighter than he’d seen them be in a very long time. 

 

America’s voice cracked as he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I’m just a clueless idiot.”

 

Canada smiled and leaned over the table to swipe a threatening teardrop from America’s face. “I don’t think that.”

 

America returned with a smile of his own and for a moment that’s all they did. Sit there and be happy, with soft smiles and a sniffle on America’s side. 

 

“One last thing though, Mattie?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Those scallops are gross.”

 

* * *

 

England clutched the dartboard to his chest like a shield. He was halfway down the street to his flat, one hand on the ground as he walked with his butt in the air. The epitome of class, he was, smelling of liquor and looking like a feral creature.

 

His shirt was stained in large splotches where several drops of Scotch had missed his mouth and dribbled down instead; along with crumbs of beer nuts and corn chips that lingered on his collar. He had smears of dirt, miniscule pebbles, and weird ground objects on his pants and imbedded in his palms from the many times he’d fallen down, stumbling down the streets piss drunk. He was far beyond caring who saw him, mind stuck on one thing like a broken record.

 

“He wouldn’t...being a baby…probably sitting there wondering where I am…” He murmured, supporting himself against a tree. “He wouldn’t just leave like that, that’s ridic- ridic- absurd.” 

 

England stopped to take a breather, watching a couple down the sidewalk jaywalk across the street to avoid him. He laughed and pushed off the tree, nearly diving head first into the concrete. Bugger them, and their happiness. He dragged himself under the light of the streetlamps to his flat stairs, collapsing on them like they were a comfy bed. 

 

“Sitting in there and waiting for me… of course, that’s where he is. He’s got the telly on, that reality trash he likes,” England said, patting down his shirt. He pulled out his house key with intense difficulty, focusing on not dropping his newly acclaimed prize as he unlocked his door. “Shoving hamburgers down his throat… sitting in my good chair and getting it greasy as he does it.” 

 

He quite literally rolled into his flat, kicking the door shut behind him. He turned onto his back in the dark hallway, crumpling the hall rug under him as he toed off his shoes. Holding his dartboard like a teddy bear, England was quiet, hoping to hear the distant sound of shit television or a microwave. 

 

“Alfred?” He called out, expecting a response. “Are you downstairs?” 

 

When he got nothing in return, England crawled towards the stairs, tackling them one at a time. “He’s probably in the study with those stupid earbuds in. I’ve told him so many times those aren’t good for his ears.” 

 

“Alfred!” England yelled again, spreading out onto the top landing. “Where are you?” 

 

He could hear something ever so faint from behind the bedroom door and smiled, struggling to his feet. He limped down the hallway in the dark, stopping before the door to brush the dirt and crumbs off his clothing. Music was playing on the other side of the door, quiet and barely audible, like someone had music cranked too loud on earbuds. He failed to notice the lack of light coming out of the room, meaning that if anyone was inside, they’d be standing in total darkness.

 

“Are you back, poppet? I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.” England said, pulling off his jacket and promptly dropping it. “It was just a silly little row we had earlier, wasn’t it? You know I wouldn’t want you to leave over something so trivial.” 

 

England hid the dartboard behind his back and swung the bedroom door open, expecting to see America sitting there. Expecting to see America on the end of the bed before he’d get up and agree with England, then kiss him because it was okay, England was right. England was right, and America had just been overactive earlier, that he was sorry for storming out like that and of course he wouldn’t leave over something so silly.

 

The room was empty. 

 

America wasn’t sitting there, waiting for him. 

 

America had however, left the window open, and music wafted in from the street below. 

 

“No, no, no, no,no- Alfred!” England yelled, turning back to the hallway. He ran out, slightly sobered, and ripped open the door to the bathroom. Again, nothing. 

 

He ran to the stairwell and called out again, waiting for any sign of recognition. Silence yelled back. 

 

“Alfred?” England said, quieter as he retreated into the bedroom. He opened the closet door and saw rows of similar suits, but no Americans. He left the door open and sank onto the bed, his chest tightening. 

 

“Alfred?” He whispered to the empty room, falling back onto his quilt. He shimmied up to his pillows and hugged one tightly, the one from the side of the bed America usually- no, used  to sleep on.

 

“Please, Alfred?” 

 

An awkward, aching sob into the pillow and a sudden need to hear America’s voice again, just to make sure the poor lad was okay, of course. England fumbled for his phone and turned it on, the screen far too bright in the dark room. No missed calls or voicemails or even texts from America, but two each from France. 

 

But fuck that bloody frog, England thought as he entered America’s number into the keypad. It went straight to voicemail, and England’s breathing hitched as the personal message played off.

 

_ “Yo, you’ve reached Alfred F. Jones, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible! Have a great day!”  _

 

England openly sobbed into the phone, blubbering an incoherent message into the receiver. He lost count somewhere after the fifth message and the point where the machine automatically changed to:

 

_ “The voicemail box of ‘Alfred F. Jones’ is full.” _

 

* * *

 

The two of them tumbled out of the club America had dragged them into, the pleasantly cool air rushing around them and wiping off the stifling heat of the nightclub. They had had to fight to get to the exit, an awkward tangle of limbs as America pulled Canada behind him. 

 

Canada smelled overwhelmingly like Maple Whiskey (Mainly because he’d spilled some on himself), a drink that fell somewhere in the middle on America’s scale of ‘Stuff He Wouldn’t Usually Drink’ and ‘Shit Matthew Likes’. The drink was a favorite of Canada’s and he didn’t have the built in tolerance that America did, obvious from his more relaxed state. It had been a surprise to America that that was Canada’s drink of choice; He’d honestly been expecting something fruity. 

 

Watermelon, apple, coconut, maybe? 

 

America smelled disgustingly like sweat and his own deodorant from being in the middle of the dancefloor. He’d been one of the most exuberant dancers out there and others had noticed, drawn to him like moths to a flame while Canada stayed hidden against a wall, watching but still far too nervous to dance. America had been dancing a little too touchy-feely with other people for Canada’s preference, but he made up for it looking like he was having a blast, smiling and trying to get Canada to join him every few seconds. He’d extend a hand out like he was urging Canada to the dance floor, waving and beaming under the multicolored lights.

 

Now outside, America caught Canada as they stumbled out into the street, grinning like a little kid on a sugar high.  

 

“I told you, you should have joined in!” America laughed, throwing his coat over Canada’s shoulders. “I’d have paid good money to see you try to twerk.”

 

“Absolutely not!” Canada replied, grinning back. He hoped America didn’t notice exactly how much he’d drunk, and in a lower, hushed tone he added: “Besides, I just liked watching you.” 

 

They stopped, America holding his hand out for a taxi. It was rare to see America blush, but Canada didn’t miss the flush on America’s cheeks as he pulled the cab door open for him, sliding in after Canada.

* * *

 

 

France rolled his neck, willing it to pop. He felt cramped in his train cabin even though there was plenty of space, blaming his emotions for the feeling instead. If only he could stretch out his legs further, maybe that’d help. 

 

Reassuring America that England could handle himself was easy enough. It was a spiel he’d given many times to all sorts of people; ‘Arthur’s a big boy, he can handle it.’ Pick a decade, any decade, and you’ll find someone that France will have said that to. Whether it was to protect England or to reassure someone else, or simply out of spite, it was a phrase France had become unfortunately acquainted with.  

 

But it was more difficult to say it when it was a blatant lie.

 

“Pardon, a water,  _s'il vous plaît_ .” France said, getting the attention of one of the attendants. 

 

It was what America needed to hear at that moment, France reasoned. America was weak-willed when it came to any member of his family being upset, whether England, Canada, or France. Just thinking back to the 1600’s proved his point; America could easily have been his colony had it not been for his need to get England to stop crying. 

 

England too was weak, never able to move past that mindset that America would need his help or guidance, or needed protection from The Big Scary World. England’s biggest weakness was always America, spoiling him and raising him as a golden child while treating Canada with a certain distain. Treatment that Canada continued to get even after England  _held a gun to America’s face and failed to shoot,_ collapsing in tears on the battlefield in plain view of all three of them.

 

France’s eye twitched. 

 

“Ah,  _Je vous remercie_ .” The Frenchman said, taking the water cup out of the attendant’s hand. He took a sip, and wished it was coffee instead.

 

France never supported their relationship. It was dangerous and he knew it, for the two of them to interact in a romantic way, where if one of them messed up the other would come crashing down. He couldn’t place blame on either one of them more than the other; England should have been smarter, America should’ve been more aware. He pretended it was okay, of course, teasing America this way and that and taunting England whenever the chance arose. But no, no it hadn’t been alright in his book and he should have let them know, he was the city of love after all, he had a flair for these things.

 

But then Canada got involved, his sweet Mathieu, developing a crush on America that spiraled way too out of control, and all France could do was sit there and hold him. Sit there and watch as America (whether unknowingly or not, France wasn’t sure) toyed with Canada’s emotions. Every time America did something that remotely mirrored Canada’s affections, Canada would call France excitedly, and France’s heart would break over the sound of his boy being so in love.  

 

He never wanted to feel that again. On a list of things he never wanted to happen again, Canada being lovesick and lonely was in the top three.

 

Ah, if only America would open his eyes and see Canada there, France wished. That was a match he could approve of. America could help Canada open up; Canada could bring out the more reserved side of America. The boys had almost always been friends, but never quite dependant on each other. 

 

He rubbed his own eyes and yawned, then reached into his carry on bag for a stick of gum. He was kicking himself for not grabbing his neck pillow- his neck was getting stiff from stress.

 

\-----------------------

 

America had his eyes shut tight, his face pressed against Canada’s.

 

The moment the hotel elevator had closed they were on each other. America was still pseudo-high from dancing while Canada had drunk his fair share of ‘liquid courage’, and Canada had America cornered against the elevator wall. His hands were grabby, and America kept shifting them away from his more vital parts, not ready to take that move. When, or if they even did, America wanted it to be a special moment, one that Canada was completely sober for. 

 

Somehow, Canada still had the taste of Maple Whiskey on his lips and it appealed more to America every moment. It was sweet and woodsy, like Canada himself, contrast to America’s plain chapstick. 

 

The elevator dinged at their floor and Canada seemed highly reluctant to stop kissing, even after America pushed his hands away. 

 

“Mattie- We’re gonna miss our floor.” He said, Canada’s fingers pulling at his hair. “C’mon, it’s time to get off.”

 

At that Canada promptly let go, collapsing into giggles in America’s arms. America turned a shade of bright pink at his own words, and chalked Canada’s behavior up to drowsiness and too much Whiskey.  

 

“Alright, up, up!” America said, lifting Canada into his arms bridal style and carrying him out of the elevator before the doors shut. “C’mon bro, stop acting dead weight.” 

 

America carried Canada down the hotel hallway, awkwardly scooting to the side when someone came out of a room. When they finally reached their own room, America dropped Canada onto the bed and let the Canadian flop against the comforter.

 

Canada spread out and tried to encompass the whole bed, watching as America paced between the bathroom and the suitcase. By the time America had walked over to give him a pair of pajamas, Canada was asleep. 

  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

France and England, always together but never as a pair. ‘Fire-forged friends’ someone had once called them, only bound by their land and wars. They were only friends when times got rough, too rough for only one of them to handle alone. WW2 came to France’s mind, and he drew his scarf tighter.

 

Every step closer to England’s house was dreadful. There weren’t many emotions of England’s that France hadn’t already seen, met, and dealt with. Anger, joy, disgust…

 

Never heartbreak. 

 

Of everything France has seen England suffer, heartbreak was elusive. Something France had only ever heard about once from Canada, years after the American Revolution. When Canada had quietly revealed that it had only taken a week before England collapsed into his arms, sobbing his head off about America.  _ That _ was the closest France had ever been.

 

France snorted. Ironic how the only tie between England and heartbreak was America.  

 

Even now, standing on the bottom step of England’s house, he wasn’t entirely sure he  _ wanted  _ to see it. A heartbroken England wasn’t something that sounded particularly fun. According to Canada, England’s depression was usually accompanied by severe mood swings and the sudden ability to throw things with impeccable aim. 

 

France knocked, and turned to look down the street as he waited. It was early- far too early in the morning for any sensible person to be awake; Yet down the street a group of people shuffled by all huddled in their coats. The rest of the world was oblivious to the events of the past (Twenty-four?) or so hours, no other nations had yet heard of America leaving England. He’d give it until daybreak before the news got leaked.

 

When England failed to open the door, France gave the knob a gentle turn. The door creaked open and revealed a scrunched up rug under France’s boots. _ Well, _ this probably wasn't a good sign to start off with.

 

“Arthur?” France whispered, stepping into the foyer. It was cold inside, from either the ajar door or some other source, and France hesitated in taking off his coat.

 

He stepped on something and narrowly avoided rolling one of his ankles. The sight of England's shoes lying abandoned next to a crumpled rug secured a worrying feeling in his gut and he kicked them aside. This wasn't normal for the impeccably tidy Englishman, even when drunk.

 

“Arthur?” France said, louder so that his voice practically boomed through the empty rooms.  _ This wasn't right _ . 

A quick look around the kitchen door proved it was empty. Same went for the other rooms when France tip-toed through them; The living room, the dining room, and an ancient sitting room with a half finished needlepoint and a United States Marine Corp mug.

 

He picked up the needlepoint with delicate fingers, a friendly patch of multi-colored daisies looking up at him. Had England been happy when he’d done this? Usually his work was in black and white, shades of grey and blue like his home. The occasional green maybe, but never oranges and reds or pinks. Happy little Daisies that’ll never be finished alongside a coffee that was clearly America’s. This was sadder than France expected.

 

America hadn’t warned England at all, He’d just up and left.

 

The house was completely silent.

 

France sat down for a moment in one of the flowery chairs and took it all in. Their day had probably started out normal, with coffee and silence. America would’ve been drinking his sugary caffeine with a copy of The New Yorker in his face; England sitting there with his tea and needlepoint like an old married person. France guessed he’d be oblivious to America’s one-word answers or avoidance to eye contact and would painfully insist on conversation.

 

_ “I’ve told them time and time again, do not play with your assets. These big business men always think they can cozy up to the Royal Family but they can’t, God knows they already have enough on their minds. Three children, and not one of them named Diana, you’d think- Alfred, are you listening to me?” _

 

_ “Huh? Of course I am, Iggs.” _

 

France looked into the coffee mug. It still had coffee in it, and a few dried drops where America sipped from it. 

 

_ “Exactly what was I just talking about then? You haven’t chimed in at all.” _

 

_ “Didn’t realise that there’d be a quiz.” _

 

_ “I don’t need your snark this morning, please, Alfred. What do you think of my needlepoint?” _

 

_ “It’s pretty.”  _

 

_ “You didn’t even look. Can’t you pay attention to anything? I swear, you’re more ridiculous by the day.” _

 

_ “I’m ridiculous? For not paying attention to a stupid needlepoint?”  _

 

_ “This isn’t about the blasted needlepoint, Alfred. Nevermind, it’s not important anyways, you wouldn’t understand. I was planning for us to go out to breakfast at Charlie’s-” _

 

_ “No, I wanna know, what the hell won’t I understand?”   _

 

A loud, dull thunking sound resonated from the ceiling above, and France dropped the needlepoint on the coffee table. He was ripped away from the image he’d created in his head, dashing out of his chair to the foyer. 

 

“Arthur!  _ Arthur! _ ” 

 

He jolted up the stairs two at a time, tracking mud onto the beautiful hardwood when he hadn't gotten a response. They creaked under him as he got to the top landing, his boots squeaking against the wood.

 

“Arthur?” France asked in the general direction of England's bedroom, noting the jacket outside the door. That one should really have been hung up, it'd take hours to get those wrinkles out. “Mon chèr?”

 

He could hear soft, light breathing from beyond, and closed the distance between him and the door. With one little peek around the frame he felt the black ball of worry in his chest evaporate with a sigh, like a curtain of dread pulled aside.

 

There on the bed was a passed out England, a sight France was nearly doubtful he'd see. He was lacking any covers and still dressed in his street clothes, but physically unharmed and in a known location, which was much more than France could ever have wanted.

 

“Oh,  _ Mon chèr. _ ” France whispered, walking in and pulling a quilt off a nearby chair. “What have you led yourself to become?”

 

After removing the disgustingly stained shirt England was wearing, France draped the fabric over England's body and tucked him in, pressing the edges of the blanket. He didn't want to risk moving England and waking him up, lest he get the full face effects of a shit-faced Brit. 

 

France made sure to shut the window next to the bed and latch it tightly. It was then that he England's phone with its plain black case. It had fallen from England's grip in his sleep and bounced onto the floor, now in front of France like tantalizing candy in front of a child.

 

A quick glance at the sleeping Arthur before France picked it up and slipped it into his pocket. 

 

* * *

 

Canada was nestled in America’s arms, happy as a clam. He’d couldn’t remember falling asleep, America moving him under the covers, or even pulling fresh pajamas on him, but he had no protests. He was warm and happy, and America smelled like soap from the shower Canada assumed he took. For this exact moment in time, no one needed either of them, no one was rushing them to get somewhere, and there was no overwhelming sense of pressure. 

 

Never could Canada have imagined it’d work out like this. That he’d one day be lying in a Paris hotel room, America wrapped around him like he was a teddy bear. For the last few years it was always ‘America and England’ around him, repeated so much that it got to the point where Canada couldn’t bear to be around England anymore.

 

Canada pulled the sheets up higher, so they were covering his neck as he rolled over.

 

Even sleeping, America looked tired. His hair was lightly damp from his shower, like a fluffy mop spread out over the pillowcases. But, for the first time in all of Canada’s recent memory, America looked peaceful. In his sleep was when America most resembled the part of himself that Canada had fallen for; the softer, more laid-back America. 

 

The one who went hiking in summers and took photos of the most ordain things because he thought they were beautiful, like waterfalls and annoying little birds. The America who prefered T-shirts over suits just like when they were kids, who didn’t get caught up in acting proper or being an ‘adult’.

 

Canada couldn’t wait for the two of them to go back home and start doing things like that. To start doing all the things he’d imagined the two of them doing for so long, to give America the vacation he needed. The list of things ran through his mind as Canada rested his head on America’s chest, listening to the steady heartbeat. 

 

When his phone rang, Canada jolted. The loud, repetitive buzzing filled the hotel room and Canada jumped out of the bed, worried it’d wake America up. This was obviously an emergency call, the sun wasn’t even up yet. 

 

“Hello?” Canada whispered, ripping the phone off the charger. A moment of silence before France’s staticy voice came over the line. 

 

“ _ Ah, Mathieu, thank goodness. I was worried you wouldn’t answer _ .” France said.  _ “Listen, get out of earshot.”  _

 

“What? Why?” Canada asked, making his way around the bed nevertheless. He pried open the glass doors to the balcony and walked out, the light breeze wrapping around him. “What is this, Papa? Do you know what time it is?” 

 

_ “Oui, I’m sorry. However, it’s very important you do something for me.”  _

 

Looking out over the Paris landscape, Canada had half a mind to hang up on France. Inside, America was still sleeping and Canada wanted nothing better than to crawl back into bed with him and snuggle up.

 

“Like what, Papa?” He asked with a sigh. 

 

_ “Can you get Alfred’s phone?”  _

 

“I’m not going to snoop for you.” Canada replied, deadpan. Of course that was on France’s mind. The man could go from genuinely caring to nosey in twelve seconds flat. 

 

_ “Non, this is not about snooping, Mathieu. I know it is early and you’re agitated, but please.”  _ France said. He left a pause, and Canada could hear a clicking sound on the other line. “ _ This is very important for Alfred’s health, and Arthur’s.”  _

 

“Papa?” 

 

“ _ England has left him some… voicemails. Considering how he was when I left, I don’t believe it’d do much good for Alfred to hear those. Arthur does not appear to be handling this all very well.” _

 

Shit. “Yeah, hang on.”

 

Whatever guilt Canada felt as he snuck back in and lifted America’s phone from the bedstand was replaced with the dreadful thought of what might happen if he didn’t. The choice was clear; either America would listen to those messages or Canada would. If America did, Canada could only think of two outcomes. 

 

America would be drowned in guilt and the happiness of the last few hours would be gone in a flash; or America would believe them. America would go back to England, and Canada would be alone again. He’d be alone again and it would all repeat, ‘America and England: Happy Together’. 

 

_ “Mathieu?” _

 

“I got it. I got… Twelve voicemails?” Canada said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He had slipped back out to the balcony, standing with America’s phone in hand. The New York skyline stared back from the phone background, highlight the little notification.

 

_ 12 new voicemails. 12 missed calls from ‘Arthur <3’. _

 

The emoji heart dug a bit at Canada’s feelings, but he ignored it. Everything had happened so quickly, it occurred to him that America hadn’t had time to change his contact name. But the fact that it was still there, that even through all the horrible events, fights, and screaming matches, the little heart had stayed there. 

 

It certainly said something about America’s love and breaking points. 

 

_ “Are we losing our connection? Mathieu?”  _

 

Canada stammered. “Should I listen to them? Or just delete them?” The question of if he should  be doing this at all went unasked.

 

_ “I… I don’t know, my Mathieu. Whichever you believe to be the right thing.” _

 

“Papa, you cannot give me this decision, I don’t…” 

 

Canada walked to the edge of the balcony, leaning against the railing. He turned around to look at America as he sat down, his back pressed against the cold metal. 

 

America slept on. He had rolled over in his sleep, the delicate pink curtains framing his bare back through the glass doors. France had no clue what had happened between him and Canada. If Canada listened to these, it could be-  _ would be _ a massive violation of America’s trust.

 

He tucked his knees up against his chest. God, he wished he had a blunt. That’d calm him at least, even if it only worked for a few minutes. 

 

_ “Au revoir, Mathieu. Tell me how it goes in the morning.” _

 

“...It’s morning already.” 

 

_ “...Oui.” _

 

Neither of them said anything for several moments, and Canada wasn’t sure whether the end call beep came from his line or France’s. 

 

America’s phone blinked to life as Canada pressed the power button, and the voicemails came back into existence. His fingers had a mind of their own as he unlocked the screen and automatically went for the voicemail icon. 

 

He shouldn’t be doing this, _he_ _shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be-_

 

_ “Please enter your voicemail password.”  _

 

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Canada looked down at the keyboard. What four digit code would America have?

 

He tried random numbers, the keypad clicking under his thumb. He was already this far, might as well give it his best effort.

 

“Try 1776.” 

 

Canada would have felt chills down his back had he not already been freezing. Looking up slowly he locked eyes with America, who was leaning against the glass door. Wrapped in the bedspread, America looked back, his hair hanging loose around his face, He didn’t look angry, or sad, or anything in particular. Just awake.

 

It was a quiet moment as the two looked at each other, and the blanket drifted around America’s ankles. He turned to look out at the sky behind Canada, a light glow from the early morning sky framing his face.

 

“You left the door open.” America said, taking a step out on the balcony. “I woke up when the phone rang but I didn’t want to bother you. I figured it was just your boss or something, ‘til I heard you say ‘Papa’. So either it was France or you have a really messed-up relationship with your boss.” 

 

Canada snorted and went back to staring down at his lap. He heard America slowly make his way across the balcony until he was standing right next to him, dropping his blanket around Canada’s shoulders and sitting next to him. 

 

Somewhere in the streets behind them, birds started to sing. Someone drove a truck by, and the sky went from black to a light blue.

 

“So, twelve of them?” America asked, his voice low. 

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Do you want to listen to them?” America asked again, putting his arm around Canada.

 

America’s phone screen went dark from inactivity.  

 

“Do you?” Canada asked, turning so they were face to face. They were only a few inches apart, and Canada could feel America rubbing his shoulder. Neither moved in for a kiss, but Canada laced his fingers with America’s.  

 

America shook his head. 

 

“He’s suffered enough,” He whispered. “Delete them.” 

 

* * *

He wasn’t sure where he was at first. Usually falling asleep drunk meant waking up somewhere random, like a bus stop or the park. The occasional unknown house and, years ago before his relationship with America, the occasional unknown bed of a stranger. Waking up in his bed was always nice. It was nicer with another person in it, but good enough on it’s own. 

 

Blindly groping for his phone, England rolled in his bed. He entangled himself in the blanket on top of him, registering that it was there but not thinking anything of it. 

 

“Bloody device.” He muttered, his head throbbing. Pulling himself up, England finally opened his eyes. 

 

His room was dark, the curtains drawn and shut over open windows. The dartboard he’d dragged into bed with him was now across the room and resting on his chair, his phone plugged in and charging next to it. On the back of the door his coat hung, cleanly ironed. 

 

The room was different than it had been when he’d fallen asleep. 

 

It couldn’t be, could it?

 

Had America come home last night, later than he had? 

 

Throwing his legs off the bed, England slowly made his way up. He left the bed a disheveled mess in his wake. The house was warm and he could smell something heavenly drifting up from downstairs, like a wonderful dream he’d woken up in.

 

He peeked behind one of his curtains, greeted by the soft glow of late afternoon sunlight. This was a sign for sure, he could practically feel America ruffling his hair. Pulling on the neatly folded stack of clothing on top of his dresser, he made sure each button was perfect. Slicked his hair back the best he could and straightened his trousers.  

 

Ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach and the pounding in his head.

 

Opening his door lead to a delicious smelling wave of air, like sausage and eggs. He toddled out of the room quietly and gently, like he was exploring his home for the first time. The windows were open and bright  sunlight streamed in all over. He could hear sizzling from the kitchen and the soft sounds of a news station playing on the tellie, a reporter lapsing on about butterflies.

 

The stairs had been swept clean as he went down them, and his shoes had been re-organized how he liked. The foyer rug had been readjusted so it was flat and had been recently vacuumed by the looks of it, something England was grateful for. 

 

Instead of walking into the kitchen, England went for the sitting room. His feet brushed over the scrunched rugs and the fading fabrics glowed in the sun, like the room was being purified by the light. The needlepoint he had been working on was stashed away into his knitting basket and back in it’s proper place under the coffee table. There were no mugs, no strewn blankets over armchairs, no copies of the New Yorker bundled up on the table. 

 

England slowly ran a hand over the back of one of the chairs. The smell of fresh orange juice and sliced tomatoes drifted by him and he realized something. There was no sign of America anywhere in his home. None that revealed the America had stayed there or been there at all recently.

 

America’s shoes had been gone from the foyer, his magazine basket in the sitting room empty and full of yarn. Whoever it was in the kitchen cooking the proper English breakfast he’d smelled all the from upstairs wasn’t America.

 

It wasn’t a stranger either. 

 

Moving so he was standing in the connecting doorway from the sitting room to the kitchen, England felt his stomach drop. The empty chatter from the tellie was background noise as he looked into his own hardly used kitchen.

 

“Alfred’s not coming back, is he?” 

 

He’d expected his voice to waver, or for France to jump at the question. Neither happened. 

 

The frenchman turned slowly, spatula in hand. He met England’s gaze and the two stood there, bathed in sunlight and silence.  

 

“No,  _ Mon chèr. _ ” France said. The response was unneeded and they both knew it, but it was better for the space to be filled. “He isn’t.”

 

England crossed the room and pulled out a kitchen chair, trying hard not to think about it being opposite the one America had last sat in. Trying to focus instead on the full Gentleman’s breakfast laid out before him, made with something England would assume was a form of love. 

 

Sausages, eggs in various forms, ham, beans in little cups that England didn’t remember owning, and little slices of tomatoes and mushrooms. There was tea, freshly brewed and waiting in his favorite teacup, next to stout glasses of orange juice and milk. A pile of English muffins were on a tray in front of a basket full of scones, wrapped in a cloth napkin. 

 

“So, are you going to join me for breakfast?”

 

England tucked his napkin into his lap and looked up at France. He watched as the chef sat down across from him and pulled his own napkin down into his lap. They made eye contact as England reached for a slice of toast and France beat him to it, handing it off along with the butter. 

 

There was a dulcet quietness between them as the reporter switched to weather. 

 

“Concerning Kate Middleton’s recent outfit, have they considered banning bright yellow from Buckingham yet?” France asked, pouring himself some of the orange juice.

 

“They should, she looked rather like a bumblebee, didn’t she?” England replied. “What would you suggest?” 

 

France looked up. England had an expression he couldn’t quite match, but it wasn’t anything like he’d expected. There was something in those eyes that he wasn’t familiar with, but they didn’t have any of the telltale signs of loneliness or heartbreak he had walked in prepared for. 

 

France was expecting England to have thrown something, screamed at France to get out, maybe upturn the table if he felt like it. But this was different. This wasn’t sadness or disappointment; it was the same look America had had when he’d gotten out of the shower, his arm bloody. 

 

England blinked, breaking their eye contact, and France said the first thing that came to mind. 

 

“Green. Green has always been a beautiful color.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this! I didn't expect it to be more than a oneshot to be honest, but I'm glad it came out to be what it is! 
> 
> I hope you have a great day!


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